On These Days of Dust and Longing...

The cloud that comes off of the road chokes me as I drive with my window down, cigarette in one hand, steering in wheel in the other. There's no radio, that was stolen long ago: a lasting reminder of my old East Village residence. As I blaze across the lower third of California, heading for anywhere but here, strange thoughts and memories come bubbling up in my brain, less like water on a frying pan and more like sulfur bubbling up from a hot spring. The foul stench lingers in my mind. Memories of the mistakes and the lies and those missed opportunities. But I've no time for this! Not now, not when I'm so close to breaking loose, to breaking free! Not when the only thing between me and three thousand miles of open space is a dust cloud. No time, not for me. I'm gone. Everything you need to know about where I'm going... you can read it in the obit. For now, the only way to catch me is in a helicopter. From the sky, you'll know me as the giant rooster tail, hellbent on freedom, dead-set on death.

bleed us dry

and once again the walls are caving in

the roof is collapsing as the room begins to spin.

i'm suffocating here, can you hear me; I CAN'T BREATHE!

my ribcage is a prison, i need my heart back on my sleeve.

my own muffled voice is lodged inside my throat

my volume has been muted by government's remote.

a columned facade of pretend power has left me impotent

a municipality has been decieved and corrupted by a cowboy president.

i scream injustice, but no one hears a peep,

beauracratic earplugs rush the wicked off to sleep.

corruption, graft and kickback are our keywords for the day,

when i say enron, you say campaign contributions courtesy of kenny lay

when i say halliburton in iraq, you say cheney, CEO.

when i ask who's a war-hawk, you say rummy is a pro.

when i say defense lobby, you say leaders of our nation.

when i say lies and murder, you say bush administration.

when i say cheetah's strip club, you say san diego city council,

when i say say we've been fucked, you say it certainly appears so.

whorehouse

what is higher education but the prostitution of learning?
too many visits to the brothel have left my genitals burning.
the pimps of academia have worked their whores into disease.
for the price of tuition you can have lit'rature on its knees.
they say the sciences will give you more bang for your buck
but so many johns choose business then find out she doesn't fuck.
she has become pimp herself, and now just gives referrals.
she doesn't put out, but she knows girls with murdered morals.
art works the weekend shift and will love you 'til you sleep,
but her love is addictive and she'll fleece you like a sheep.
mathematics is an unwilling whore, the brothel's coldest slut
but those who can pay her price, well, you can see it in their strut.
all the girls have their appeals and each man has his favorite
my personal choice is film, because she listens to my shit.
for so long i couldn't choose a girl, i was undeclared.
and now i love all the whores but it's the pimps of whom i'm scared.
they've made the chief mistake in the sex-for-money game
they're in love with their whores and now they hate to see them shamed.
so they beat the customers and drive away their clientelle,
i say fuck it, burn the whorehouse and i'll see you pimps in hell.

alone all the time

we will always be lonely. emotion is fickle, and love most of all. we will always be lonely. whether at twenty or forty we find ourselves alone in a one room apartment with one fork and one spoon and one knife. One cofee mug and one champagne flute for a toast to no one on a lonely new years eve. we wander the nightspots and watch from a distance as men with bravado who lie to themselves pursue women in hot pants who have been hurt enough to want nothing more than to hurt someone else. it's a sad fucking state of affairs, this world. i loved her so much, but she couldn't allow herself to be loved. i still love her, and i cry every night.

breathe in for luck

time crawls by as i wait for this train to stop

dying for a breath of fumes, my lungs are fit to pop

my hand shakes uncontrollably with need

a coughing fit rips through my chest and my stomach starts to bleed

i'm nothing but a ball of nerves, please don't set me off

i'm a jittering mess of edginess, beset by a cancerous cough

this constricting addiction makes everything surreal

a desperate need for poisoned smoke is all i feel

i can't eat or sleep until that sweet inhale

sitting here, in reverent fear, the world has gone stale

twenty minutes to los angeles and peace

twenty years until the end of my body's lease.